


life was euphoric when we didn’t know much (because i’m out my depth now)

by larrymurphycansteponme



Category: I Was Born for This - Alice Oseman
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, angsty bicci baby, dw it’ll be resolved yall, ohhhh yeah there’s ANGST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-23 00:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18538360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larrymurphycansteponme/pseuds/larrymurphycansteponme
Summary: It has been approximately seven months since Lister and Jimmy started hooking up, just casually, just, like, on the down low. Not anything serious.Absolutely nothing whatsoever.





	life was euphoric when we didn’t know much (because i’m out my depth now)

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY so i wrote this over the past few evenings in between the hours 11 pm to 2 am exclusively. if u want a song rec whilst reading, ISABEL BY THE WOMBATS. enjoy and thank u for reading!!!!!!

It has been approximately seven months since Lister and Jimmy started hooking up, just casually, just, like, on the down low. Not anything serious. No. It was just... it felt right. Like, it just had to happen, and it was okay, it was better than before. Not perfect, definitely not perfect, and Lister wouldn’t even stretch to say that it was, like, great. In some ways, things just got worse. More confusing. In between the stress of hiding that kind of thing, life generally, and Cecily being herself, he’s been bombarded with all these new and unfamiliar feelings. When you have an unrequited crush on someone for two years, almost three, you know your emotions regarding the damn thing. The problem is that now things are different. Lister is confused. And stupid. And stuff just really isn’t working out.

 

Of course, he’s only really thinking about this on their evening off. About twelve months ago, time off meant a house party and drinking. Rowan and Jimmy would slink off somewhere to play video games and he would be alone. Funny, how you can be alone surrounded by a bunch of people who want to have sex with you.

 

Tonight is breaking tradition, and it’s not the first time. Rowan has a date (he rented out an entire restaurant for the evening) with this girl he met at a film premier. This means Lister and Jimmy have a few precious hours to themselves, and they’re currently in Lister’s bedroom, making out. When they have the chance, when no one will accidentally walk in and discover a horrifying secret that can’t ever get out, it feels a lot safer. Still, something about it feels so instinctively wrong. Like they’re committing some heinous act. Jimmy’s hands on his waist are a petty crime and when their lips touch, the jury will find them guilty of the greatest felony. It shouldn’t, should it? Lister doesn’t really think so.

 

They’re on the bed, kissing, when Lister hesitates and says, “can we talk?” He kind of regrets it for being so cliché and cringe worthy, but he— he needs to say something. Right? This has been seven months of doing things for absolutely no reason and without a word spoken of it. They don’t talk. That’s the thing. Lister and Jimmy don’t talk about deep stuff, ever. They make dumb jokes and piss each other off during soundcheck, and whenever they get the chance, they blow off steam with one another. There’s this underlying tension that never really goes away between them. Basically everyone knows that Lister Likes Jimmy, and Jimmy— Lister doesn’t really know how Jimmy feels about him, but he’s happy to hook up, and it just never stops. The feeling. The feeling is both the cause and effect of Why They Don’t Talk.

 

Jimmy pauses, and Lister watches how, seemingly so slowly, his brow pinches together and his mouth draws shut, down into a slanted line that paints an expression of concern and self-doubt. Then, he sits back slightly, pulling his hands from where they had once comfortably rested.

 

“What?”

 

There is a horrible silence. Jimmy is staring expectantly at Lister, his dark, doe eyes burning into his skull with that completely unreadable look. Like he’s lost. Lister feels quite lost right now. Something just confuses him so much, makes it so hard for him to comprehend any logic or fact. That something has made him completely unable to use speech, apparently. Lister thinks he knows what he wants to say, but, God, it would take forever.

 

It’s just been bothering him for a really long time, honestly. This. Jimmy And Lister. Can he even call it that? Probably not, considering they aren’t an actual thing. Seven months ago, Jimmy got really fucking drunk at some party they had to attend, and he told Lister how he thought he was just _so_ _hot_ , and that he _couldn’t_ _stop_ thinking about him and, considering they were staying at a hotel in neighbouring rooms, you can imagine how that night ended. It sounds simple. It sounds like it didn’t mean anything at all. It sounds like every single interaction Lister Bird has ever had with anyone he’s hooked up with, and yet it wasn’t. Hearing those words from Jimmy was different, even if he was completely wasted.

 

The next morning, Lister had woken up to Jimmy running into the en suite to throw up. It was funny, being the one to crouch awkwardly by the toilet and pat the back of the one being sick for once. Lister had made a bunch of jokes about just how funny it was, rambling to cover up how garbage he was feeling about being sober and Jimmy, and how he couldn’t really enjoy parties anymore, and Jimmy, and also Jimmy. He had laughed and kept it lighthearted for as long as he could. He was being his blissfully stupid and upbeat self, and Jimmy was letting him. They didn’t talk about what had happened. Why would they?

 

On the drive from the hotel back to their apartment, Jimmy didn’t look at him once. They went off to do their own separate things; Lister had watched horror movies and secretly cried about what happened, and he thinks Jimmy and Rowan had played _Splatoon_ because he had heard laughter. It was like it didn’t even matter. Any of it.

 

A few weeks after that, Lister had convinced himself Jimmy had just gotten drunk and decided to get off with the nearest available guy. He did that at parties, anyway. Lister shouldn’t have really been complaining anyway, because it always pissed him off to see Jimmy with other boys. He had moved on, hadn’t thought about it in forever, when Jimmy asked him if he wanted to watch some film. Lister doesn’t remember where Rowan was. He wasn’t there, though. At some point during the film, they just started making out.

 

Lister was starting to realise how fucking bad this was for him.

 

There he was, kissing the person he had liked for two goddamn years, and it didn’t even mean anything. It was cheap and stupid and honestly? It felt a bit like he was just there. Available. And Jimmy would just do whatever because he knew that Lister wouldn’t say no if he liked him. Which he did. Does. He couldn’t really bring himself to accept that, because Lister thinks to highly of Jimmy. He wouldn’t do it consciously. It just kind of sucked, to have everything he really wanted yet practically nothing at the same time. 

 

It got worse from that point on. Whatever, whenever. They didn’t care. It was never discussed, never addressed, but every once in a while, something would happen to trigger it. Lister would offer Jimmy a dangerously flirty smile, or Jimmy would say something particularly grumpy and snide, and it would always end with them finding some excuse to both be alone. There was this euphoric period where Lister didn’t really care, where he was just happy to have that. An unspoken relationship that isn’t really a relationship. It’s not like their friendship was ruined. It’s not like anyone knew about it apart from them. It was simple, and low maintenance, and easy to contain. The anarchy was somewhat enjoyable.

 

Then, one night, they did talk. The horrible, seemingly-permanent purgatory of silence was over. They were in some random hotel room. It happened most often in hotels, after shows or parties. Lister thinks they had just finished one of their shows on their American tour. Jimmy was lying on his side in the bed, one hand tucked tightly underneath a pillow, the other clenched into a fist, lying on the mattress in the space between him and Lister. Neither of them dared to breach it. It was an unfriendly reminder of What It Was. They didn’t cuddle. Why would they do that? It was just casual. They were both shirtless, the room was dark, and Lister was lying on his back.

 

It was quite a nice hotel. The bed was big, and the sheets were crisp, white. The air conditioning was a little loud, and you could hear traffic outside, but it was still better most. The plastic flowers that sat in a vase by the bedside didn’t even smell bad. Just fake.

 

Lister was shamefully sweaty and he felt uncomfortable for multiple reasons. Usually, after they were done, they would wordlessly go to sleep. Tonight felt different. Lister hasn’t shut his eyes yet, despite the fact he turned off the bedside lamp about ten minutes ago, and he sensed Jimmy hadn’t either. He had asked him what was wrong. He had broken that silence. Honestly, Lister didn’t expect an answer, or, at least, a serious one.

 

Jimmy had just started crying. It was an awful sort of crying. The scrunched up type that makes you angry to see because it seems so painful. Suddenly, Lister had breached that space between them, and his hand was on Jimmy’s hunched shoulder. He had cried and said things Lister chose not to listen to or understand, whilst he reassuringly rubbed his arm. It felt so strange, to have spoken, to have touched in an intimate way and not felt like he’d stolen that from lovers who deserve it. God. Lovers was probably a strong word, wasn’t it?

 

The plastic flowers clinked against their vase, pushed about by the wind. Hours ago, when they tumbled into this hotel room, Lister had opened the window. It was hot, in America, in a better-than-most hotel, and the cool air had washed over them, grounding all of that in reality. Now, drifting from the situation, he had become focused on the smallest, most annoying details. How he was sweaty, despite the air conditioning and the open window. An ashtray that sat sadly empty on the bedside table. How the moles on Jimmy’s shoulder were asymmetrical and different sizes. The sound of those fucking flowers in the wind.

 

Lister hadn’t even listened to what Jimmy was saying. He had talked forever, in this quiet and worrisome voice. It felt ironic that Lister blanked it all. He didn’t particularly want to think about how he felt when Jimmy has been too self absorbed to listen to his problems. On That Saturday, Lister had felt like everything he was saying was total garbage, that Jimmy just hated him so much he wasn’t worth hearing out, and now he was doing the same thing. The thought of making Jimmy ever feel how Lister felt was a terrible one, and he found himself tearing up a little.

 

The little snippets of conversation Lister does recall from that night are brief and meaningless. Jimmy had said something about how he hated fake flowers because they’d had them at his grandma’s funeral. He also said something about how America smelled racist. Lister wasn’t sure how you could smell racism. Then he said he hated being in the band still and he just wanted to move to the Lake District. Lister had half-listened to a very intense ramble about how Jimmy just really wanted to meet some farmer boy who didn’t use the Internet and had no idea who he was, so he could serenade him with love songs. Whilst they lay in bed together. Shirtless. Embraced.

 

Lister’s euphoric period of not caring had died that night. It started about a month into the whole thing, and ended three later. Four months. Lister had been fine with doing it all for four months. Being so vulnerable and open and himself with someone he deeply loved and trusted, only to have his heart burned until there was nothing left. He was stupid. So goddamn stupid.

 

Lister’s problem, though, was even if he had acknowledged something was wrong, he often wouldn’t resolve shit. Eventually, Jimmy had fallen asleep that night. In the morning, when they both woke up, everything was normal and how it always is. They referenced age-old inside jokes and talked about funny little things that had happened at the show from the previous night. They were just friends. Just two close friends with care-free, problem-free lives. Lister didn’t voice anything he was feeling, truly. He sat, and laughed and nodded occasionally at what Jimmy was saying, and secretly wondered how he could be like that. So... uncaring. Jimmy wasn’t really the type to do that. Lister didn’t think so. Lister hoped that Jimmy felt the exact same way he did, that he loved him, but he wasn’t sure it was returned, so he just settled for making him happy and fucking his own feelings over.

 

He didn’t want to be left in this unbearable fear anymore. And yet, five months since they started the whole damn mess, Jimmy does something that really fucks him up.

 

Lister fell asleep first. They were in another hotel, in America, which smelt like racism, and there were more plastic flowers, which Jimmy didn’t like because they were at his grandma’s funeral, and the room reeked of little deaths, so Lister fell asleep first because he was sad and tired. At some point, he stirred, and realised he was alone. Literally. Jimmy was gone, having left Lister wondering. Thinking.

 

There was an ashtray. It was empty. Sadly. Lister didn’t have any cigarettes on him, because he was supposed to stop smoking. Jimmy had said he was so proud of him for quitting, for going a whole fucking ten months without it. And the booze. Booze. He had sat up in bed, and walked over to the mini-fridge. Upon opening the door, he spied a bottle of white wine. It was tempting. God, it was so tempting to just have some melodramatic pity party, all because his best friend would fuck him but wouldn’t love him. Get drunk. Whatever. Who cares? Lister was so done not caring about Jimmy that he didn’t care how he didn’t care anymore.

 

And then, just as he was about to completely give up, the door had creaked open. Warm light spilt into the dark, gloomy blue room from the hallway, and Jimmy stepped inside. “Lister?” He had asked, knowing what was going on. Lister hadn’t said anything. He stood up from where he’d crouched to be at eye level with the fridge, closed the door and shook his head at Jimmy. He noticed his eyes were red, puffy.

 

The ashtray was empty. The fridge was full. The flowers looked ugly. Jimmy’s stupid moles still weren’t the same, and Lister was pretty mad at him. He didn’t ask where he’d gone, and Jimmy didn’t ask why he was having a breakdown in front of an open fridge. They just fell asleep, together. That was a rarity, that they would be together. A tangle of lover’s limbs. For once, it felt a little bit more real. Lister was the little spoon, and the soft side of Jimmy’s hair that always fluffed up at awkward angles had tickled his cheek.

 

Those are the only two times they had ever talked, in seven months of this bullshit. It’s hard for Lister to put all of his feelings into cubes, like Jimmy can. To understand how he’s feeling completely and express it in a comprehensible way. That’s why he’s so scared to say this. Right now. At their apartment. They are no longer in America, in hot rooms with plastic flowers and empty ashtrays that reek of little deaths. This is as safe, as close to home, as it gets.

 

Jimmy is looking at him like he’s a complete fucking stranger. Expecting an answer.

 

Lister sighs. “I— this isn’t really... what I want. I think. At the moment.” He’s nearly sort of crying. God, Lister finds it so hard to talk seriously. He keeps up this idiotic, child-like manner and whenever he drops it to say something meaningful and raw, it suddenly all gets stuck in his throat. How can people not break down when they’re about to tell someone all of the terrible, terrible things they’re feeling? Lister hates the idea of other people knowing about all of his shit and then having the burden of carrying it.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Like. What the fuck are we even doing?” Lister laughs, but it isn’t funny. Jimmy is deathly silent.

 

Then, he pulls this face. It’s distinct and painfully characteristic for Jimmy, the way his nose wrinkles up, and yet his eyes still hold that lost, unreadable, look. He looks tired. Like he could sleep for four years. “Do we have to talk about this now?” He asks. His voice is quiet.

 

“When else are we gonna talk about it?” As Lister says this, he rests his head on Jimmy’s shoulder, and pulls him a little closer. “You know I care about you,” he says, in an unusually soft-spoken tone, “and I just don’t think this is good. For anyone. Maybe it was, but it isn’t really anymore.”

 

He doesn’t want to admit it, and he knows Jimmy doesn’t either. This seems like something they have both worked so hard to have, and yet it is so unbearable garbage. Lister hears Jimmy sigh, and then he starts to stroke his hair. “Yeah.” He says, and it feels very final.

 

Yeah. This is bad.

Jimmy sniffs, and then mumbles, “I thought this would work out, like, better.” Lister doesn’t really understand what he means, but he doesn’t ask. It’s done. It’s over. This thing is no longer a thing, and they are gonna move on in their lives. Lister still likes Jimmy, obviously, of course, but there’s not much he can do about it. He prefers the certainty of friends to the almost, almost, almost.

 

For a few weeks, things are in full swing as if nothing ever happened. The morning after, Lister manages to worm out some information from Rowan about his fancy date, and he spends the rest of the day endearingly teasing him about it. It apparently went well. Everyone is generally in a good mood. They finished touring a while ago, and now they’re supposed to be writing new material at the studio. Hours upon hours of just drumming, doing what he enjoys, with his best mates. There’s the occasional event, interview, radio show that they have to appear for, but work is mostly laid back. There’s a few important meetings about the band’s next single, a bunch of boring stuff Lister kind of zones out of, and then they’re back. Writing a song.

 

“So, the bass line is like this?” Rowan asks, as he lazily plays a few bars to get a feel for it. He and Jimmy have been discussing what to do with the bass for about half and hour now. This is one of those incidents where Rowan and Jimmy are gonna fall out because of their creative differences and common trait of stubbornness. Once he stops playing, Rowan frowns and says, “it doesn’t sound right.”

 

The song doesn’t have a name yet, and Lister hasn’t read the lyrics. Jimmy wrote them, with a tiny bit of input from Rowan a few days ago. They had a melody to go with them, and are currently sat in the studio, trying to come up with every other little detail that fleshes out a song. At some point, after a long few hours of music making, the reusable green water bottle that Rowan brings into the studio every day (because ‘hydration is important’) runs dry, and he announces that he’s going to the bathroom. Which is totally fine. No problem there.

 

Lister is swivelling around on his stool, drumsticks in hand, and just as he is about to say something to break the mildly awkward silence, Jimmy beats him to it.

 

“Can we talk?”

 

“What?”

 

It feels so painfully parallel, like looking into a mirror. Lister wonders what the fuck they could have a serious talk about, and decides he would really like it if Rowan would come back right now. He doesn’t want to think about all of that, not after it is done and put behind them. Right?

 

He is nervously swivelling from side to side now, as Jimmy hesitates. “Do you still like me?”

 

And frankly, Lister doesn’t really want to answer that question. Because, the answer is yes. God, yes, he still likes Jimmy. Lister first started liking Jimmy when he was almost seventeen, because he was his best friend, and he was funny, and sweet, and he had nice hair. Really nice hair, and he wore a cologne that smelled fucking amazing. That hasn’t really changed since, though the things Lister has loved have grown and adapted. It’s this weird feeling, like he’s been punched into space and death is just taking a little longer to kick in than usual. It’s scary and it feels wrong, but at the same time it is so nice. It was so nice, so sweet, such a bliss to have those small moments in hotel rooms. It was the best Lister would ever get, and he took it whilst it didn’t hurt, whilst it felt like fresh air. Eventually, the effect wore off. Eventually, those off-white walls were just as suffocating as the prior separation.

 

“Yeah.” He admits. It feels shameful, like he’s eight years old all over again, and asking a friend to run across the playground to ask a pretty girl to date. Only it’s about a hundred times worse because it’s Jimmy. And real life. Not primary school and girls he doesn’t even remember the names of.

 

And then, Jimmy says, “I think I like you back.”

 

Lister is going to die. It is official. He can feel his lungs constricting in his chest, and his heart is desperately hammering against his ribs. He takes a deep breath. “Are you joking?”

 

“No,” Jimmy wrinkles his nose up, and shakes his head, “I’ve just been in denial about it for a really long time. And I’m sorry for being shitty about it.”

 

“So—” Lister starts, just as the door opens up to reveal Rowan, with his refilled bottle, smelling of the lavender hand-soap the studio stocks. He frowns.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.” Shrugging, Lister shoots Jimmy a look that he hopes conveys ‘we can talk about this later’. He has no idea if he understands, but Jimmy jumps straight back into song writing like nothing has happened. Lister finds himself zoning out of the whole process periodically, awestruck by the whole conversation. How surreal. It cannot possibly be that Jimmy Likes Lister. That’s utterly ridiculous, that’s the kind of bullshit Lister convinced himself would never happen in an attempt to get over his silly crush.

 

But here he is. God.

 

They finish up at the studio, leaving them with the whole evening off. Rowan says they should watch a movie, so Lister finds himself sprawled across one of the sofas in their living room, intense action shots blurring together with the sound of gunshots and cars. Usually, he’d be over-invested in a dumb thriller like this, but tonight he is completely consumed by awkward tension and an overwhelming feeling of marvel. He keeps glancing across the room at Jimmy, remembering what he said in the studio, and not quite being able to comprehend it. He feels like he might have just won at something, anything in life. Prevailed, in something he cares about. What a sensation.

 

Lister had spent the two hours and fifteen minutes the film ran for thinking about all the things he had to say to Jimmy when they got the chance. What did this mean? Were they going to revert back to an unhealthy relationship they only just ended? Would they do nothing about it? Would they take the biggest and dumbest risk in the name of love? That made him feel so dizzy, the thought of, like, Jimmy And Lister. Lister And Jimmy. He would be the very best he could be. He would make big, romantic gestures and know how to be organised about it too, he’d rent out fancy restaurants and arrange expensive dates and know exactly how to express himself in an eloquent and heartfelt way. He would never, ever buy Jimmy plastic flowers.

 

That evening, they finally get their chance to talk. Lister has been planning out What To Say in his notes app on his phone, whilst anxiously pacing around his room. He has three sentences, and they all include the word ‘cool’ multiple times. It’s not like he prides himself on being particularly skilled with the English language anyway.

 

And then, halfway through his fourth sentence, in which he uses the synonym ‘sick’ instead, there is a knock at his door. Defeatedly, he switches his phone off and opens up the door. It’s Jimmy. Obviously. Lister would lie to himself and say he expected it to be Rowan, but he knew it would be Jimmy. He just didn’t want it to be, so he could take the time to maybe scrape together a romantic paragraph.

 

“Hey.” He says, quietly. The sound of Rowan playing the piano floats down the hallway. It’s the new song. The untitled one.

 

Lister swallows. “Hi.”

 

“Um, so,” Jimmy laughs awkwardly, “you know how, at the start of season three of _Brooklyn-99_ , Jake and Amy agree to have a light and breezy relationship? And, like, it doesn’t really work out because they like each other too much to just keep it light and breezy, so then, at the end of the episode, Amy shows up at Jake’s place and tells him that she really wanted to talk to someone about them? And the only person she wants to talk about that with is Jake?”

 

“I have absolutely no idea why you’re just describing an episode of _Brooklyn-99_ to me, but yeah.” Lister says, and tries to smile. Jimmy just stares at him like he’s a complete idiot.

 

“Because,” Jimmy runs a hand through his hair, “it’s like— I’m the Jake to your Amy. Or, actually,” he pauses, clearly rethinking what he has just said, “the example I just used would make _me_ Amy because I’m the one who came here and told you that I wanted to, um, yeah, so I guess you’re the Jake to my Amy.”

 

All of the blood has rushed to Lister’s head.

 

“I can’t believe you actually just asked me out by using _Brooklyn-99_ as an example,” he says, before hastily adding, “I mean, if you actually were asking me out and weren’t just, um, saying how we have such a great work ethic... as colleagues...” Then, Lister bites his lip to stop himself from spouting any more embarrassing bullshit, and fluffs his hair up because he feels painfully awkward.

 

“Yeah, uh, I was. Um,” Jimmy laughs nervously, as if he’s unsure what to say.

 

Lister does the same. Then, he has an actual brain fart and playfully punches Jimmy in the arm before saying in his stupid Flirty Voice, “okay, boyfriend.”

 

Jimmy looks at him weirdly.

 

“I mean,” he says, silently panicking and trying to recover from whatever the fuck that was, “we don’t even— we’re not— labels are weird. Huh?”

 

But then, Jimmy smiles. “No, uh. That’s cool... boyfriend.”

 

“Cool,” Lister echoes him, “cool cool cool cool cool cool cool cool. Cool. Cool, cool.”

 

Then they both laugh. It’s weirdly sheepishly, and slightly disjointed, but not necessarily in a bad way. In a new and unfamiliar way. Like, they’re still making dumb jokes and laughing at _Brooklyn-99_ references and being themselves, which is all Lister every really wanted. But they aren’t just friends, or just band mates, or light and breezy anymore. That might take some time to get used to, and at first it might seem very different, but at the same time it’s fucking brilliant. Whatever was before, light and breezy, was terrible. Lister didn’t say what he really wanted because he thought Jimmy had what he wanted, and that’s what he cared about the most. He guesses those feelings must’ve been the same for him, if they’re standing here, right now, no longer light and breezy.

 

Lister is reeling the the shock. Like, how is that supposed to sink in? Jimmy Kaga-Ricci literally just asked him out (something Lister has envisioned happening for a little under three years) and he did it by comparing them to Jake and Amy. Peraltiago. That’s not your average evening off. Fuck.

 

“This feels weird.” Jimmy whispers. Lister frowns.

 

“Not, like, bad weird?”

 

“No,” he shakes his head, “just new. New weird.”

 

Lister finds himself intertwining their hands. Which is also new. Very new, and kind of exciting, exhilarating. “I was kind of thinking that too.”

 

Jimmy sighs, and then he laughs. “God, why can’t you say something stupid and make this less awkward?”

 

Grinning, Lister leans in so their faces are only centimetres apart. “I’m sorry I’m not some random farmer from the Lake District who has no idea who you are, but I guess I’ll have to fucking do.”

 

“Let’s not talk about farmers ever again.” Jimmy says, and it sounds far too genuine for what is quite a stupid sentence. Lister laughs softly. At some point, his hands have trailed up to Jimmy’s jawline, and the pads of his thumbs caress his cheeks. The hands on Lister’s waist are no longer a petty crime, because it is heartfelt and caring, caring in a different sort of way. Dare he say romantic?

 

“Can I kiss you?” Lister asks, because he never asks, and he wants their first kiss as Jimmy And Lister to be one he asks permission for. Unlike the rest.

 

Jimmy nods. “Yeah.”

 

Three months later, their new single has been announced as Radio One’s hottest new record as it is played for the first time ever on any station. And there’s a small celebration in the apartment, between all three of them. Rowan got _Shloer_ , which makes Lister feel like a middle class preteen boy, but he appreciates the sentiment. Sobriety. Hell yeah.

 

Within about half an hour, Twitter is blowing up with theories from Ark stans all around the world. It’s a mixed bag of ‘holy shit another shippy Jowan song’, ‘The Ark are gonna be on _B-99_ ’ and ‘this random person is totally who the song is about’, most notably. Lister doesn’t mind. That night, once the lights are turned out and he has gone into Jimmy’s bedroom for a few quiet, comfortable hours of making out and spooning, he knows the truth. He is honest with himself, as he squeezes Jimmy’s hand lovingly. The single is called _Jake_ _and_ _Amy._

 

They’re going to tell Rowan soon. Very soon. They just didn’t see the point in stressing him out with all this change in case things went south and nothing came of it. But it has been three months, and they aren’t bored, they aren’t anxious, they aren’t sad. Lister feels fucking great.

 

“Hey,” he says, suddenly, as they are lying in bed, face to face, “you know that one night? When we were on the America tour, and you disappeared for a little bit? Where were you?”

 

It’s been nagging at him for a while. Lister doesn’t know why it comes wandering through his mind in this moment, but it does, and in such an intimate and simple moment, he doesn’t see anything else to take centre stage in conversation. He wants to know. The coolness of the mini fridge washing over him, at his lowest point, seems to ghost across his face. Lister can’t quite shake that feeling, the annoyance that he couldn’t drink, smoke, be with Jimmy.

 

He has closure now, though. Lister doesn’t need to smoke, he hasn’t had a drink in a year, and he hasn’t wanted one since that night. Jimmy And Lister are doing great. He is doing great. He just wants to know.

 

Jimmy smiles softly, brushing a strand of hair from Lister’s eyes. “I rang my grandad, and then once I’d done that, I cried in the lobby for, like, half an hour because I didn’t know what to do.”

 

“About what?”

 

“You, idiot.”

 

Lister sighs, and smiles. “Maybe if we’d talked about our feelings we could’ve sorted this all out sooner.”

 

“True,” Jimmy says, “but I don’t think that would’ve ever happened.”

 

“Hell yeah, we’re total idiots.” With a grin, Lister holds his hand up for a gimmicky high-five. Jimmy rolls his eyes and gently presses his hand to Lister’s. Then, their fingers interlock, and they are holding hands. Again. It’s not new anymore, and it’s certainly not weird. It feels natural and good and Lister wants to do it forever.

 

“I love you.” Jimmy says. For the first time. Ever. Like that.

 

Lister feels the overwhelming urge to make a dumb joke, to make Jimmy laugh. Watch his smile spread into a grin, for the corners of his eyes to crinkle up, hear that sweet, sweet sound. Lister would gladly bottle the sound of Jimmy’s laugh and use it to make music far more beautiful than anything they’ve ever written. God, he loves him. He loves him so much.

 

So he says that, instead. And they kiss some more, until they are too tired to keep going, and fall asleep. Together.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> also yes im aware that im single handedly filling the iwbft tag with trashy getting-together bicci fics but are you complaining????? No.


End file.
